


Joyous Division of the Newest Order

by XxmerthurcatxX



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, FUCK, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier is a prince, M/M, Mutual Pining, Some angst, Sorry!, Sort of AU, Succubus, and jaskier doesn't mind, but like, but we all know that I don't do sad endings, geralt is jaskier's armed escort, hmm, i keep having to add new tags, jaskier is a spoiled prince, just for a minute or two, sex magic that doesn't actually make them have sex, shameless flirting, so the angst with resolve itself, there was going to be sex in this but it didn't end up happening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:35:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22500010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XxmerthurcatxX/pseuds/XxmerthurcatxX
Summary: Witcher contracts are few and far between these days and Geralt is low on coin. When Yennefer points him in the direction of a job as an armed escort, he accepts. Unfortunately, his new charge is a spoiled prince who can't seem to keep it in his pants.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 73
Kudos: 826





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slight au because Jaskier is a prince and not a bard and Geralt is his armed escort. It still takes place in the world of the show however.

Geralt was going to kill Yennefer.

_ “Absolutely not,” he snarled.  _

_ Yennefer rolled her pretty, if a little unsettling, violet eyes at him. Eyes Geralt had once though looked best when they were blown wide with lust, but that he now found only the comfort of a friend.  _

_ “Times are changing, Geralt. And you must change with them.” _

_ It was more than reasonable for her to say so. Times had changed greatly indeed. Geralt was finding it harder and harder to pick up contracts. It wasn’t that monsters no longer plagued villages, it was that humans themselves had evolved. They had better weapons, better combat training. While a witcher could get the job done with relative ease, it was cheaper for the men of the village to face the beasts themselves. Geralt couldn’t fault them for that. Humans were hardly the only creatures who were loath to part with their coin unless absolutely necessary.  _

_ “Yen, can you honestly see me as a...” Geralt trailed off, his disgust at the mere prospect of the job making him unable to finish.  _

_ “Chaperone? Armed Escort? The second more than the first to be sure, but the coin is good,” Yennefer promised. “And I know the Kingdom you’d be serving well. There are plenty of monsters abound to keep you busy should you need a break from your charge.”  _

_ Geralt was grateful, though he wouldn’t say it out loud. Yennefer had only been able to drag the truth about his penniless circumstances from him after a truly wretched amount of some strong and overly fancy wine that he couldn’t remember the name of. Since then she had made it her mission to help him find more steady employment because, as she put it, they were “friends, Geralt. I know the word is hard for you to say, but there’s hardly another good word for ex lovers who still care about and look out for each other.”  _

Which was how Geralt found himself, grudgingly, walking into the throneroom beside the mage to offer his services to the King and Queen of Lettenhove. 

“Your majesties,” Yennefer greeted with a low curtsey, giving Geralt a look until he gave a proper bow of respect. 

“Yennefer, love, we’ve talked about this,” the Queen said, getting up from her throne and pulling Yennefer in for a hug. “We’ve known each other for years. Please, call me Rain.” 

Geralt watched in quiet amusement as Yennefer awkwardly returned the hug. 

“Of course, Rain. My apologies”

“You’ve been at court too long,” Rain said, patting Yennefer’s cheek as a mother might. Geralt suddenly wished he had paid more attention when Yennefer had explained how exactly she knew the Queen. 

The King sat contentedly on his throne. He looked tired, Geralt noted, and his fingers twitched nervously against the table. Geralt had long ago lost his taste for royals of all kinds, but this man seemed more subdued than most. More like a concerned, if put upon, father than a King. Hmm. What exactly was his charge like if his father sat around with such a look on his face?

“And you must be Geralt of Rivia,” Rain said, looking him up and down curiously. “I’ve never known a witcher to do anything but hunt monsters. Changing career paths are we?” she asked. 

Geralt gave Yennefer a look over the Queen’s shoulder, who was supposed to have filled the family in so that he didn’t have to. 

“Harder to find contracts these days,” Geralt told her simply. 

The Queen hummed, giving him a long look up and down. 

“Well, there’s certainly no doubt of whether or not you can handle to job where anyone who might try to harm my son is concerned. Whether my son will prove too much for you however...” she trailed off, glancing back at Yennefer. “How would you describe my son, Yennefer?”

Geralt shot the mage a look. She’d left out the fact that she knew the Prince and, if he knew anything about the woman in front of him, she’d done it on purpose. 

For her part, Yennefer was trying her best to look innocent. 

“A bit...eccentric, perhaps. But he’s smart as a scholar and the life of most parties,” Yennefer said. 

Rain laughed. 

“Yes, he is that. That’s why we’re hiring him an escort after all. To make sure he has someone to keep him out of trouble.”

She turned back to Geralt. 

“If you’re sure you’d like the job, it’s yours,” she offered. 

Geralt had half a mind to ask if he could meet the man he was meant to be protecting before he agreed. What if he was the annoying sort? He was likely to be a spoiled brat who spent all of his time chasing the Princesses from visiting Kingdoms instead of attending to his royal duties. Geralt would rather be swallowed by a Selkimore every day for the rest of his life, than chase a bumbling idiot of a Prince.But Yennefer was nodding eagerly behind the Queen’s back and so Geralt gave a curt nod. 

“I accept.” 

The King snorted behind his hand and Geralt’s impeccable hearing caught a few mumbled words;  _ God help you, Witcher _ .

Ah. Seemed the King pitied him his job. That was hardly a good sign. 

“Well, since you’re all squared away,” Yennefer started, already beginning to cast a portal, “I’ll just be--

The doors of the throne room swung open to reveal a rather disheveled looking young man. He was a little shorter than Geralt, svelte in build, with chestnut hair that was more than a little mussed. His doublet was fully open revealing a thin, almost see through, chemise with the top two buttons undone. Despite his haphazard appearance, there was a grin on his face and a devilish glint in his eyes. He looked...sated in every sense of the word. 

“Good morning, mother,” he sighed dramatically as he strutted forward to press a kiss to the Queen’s cheek. 

Oh. Okay. This was the Prince then. Geralt watched as the man turned to his father and gave a mock salute by way of greeting. 

Geralt turned to Yennefer who was pointedly picking at an invisible thread on her dress. What the hell had she gotten him into?

The prince’s eyes found Yennefer next and his carefree grin was replaced with something closer to a grimace. 

“Yennefer,” he said, voice dripping with disdain. 

The mage smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. 

“Jaskier.” 

The prince opened his mouth to say something but with a final wave over her shoulder, Yennefer disappeared through the portal. His gaze finally fell upon Geralt, blue eyes bright even as a confused look flitted across his face. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, moving toward Geralt without a hint of hesitation. Huh. Generally, if his stature didn’t put people off, the yellow eyes did the trick. But the man didn’t seem to care about either. 

“This is Geralt of Rivia,” his father called, finally speaking up. 

Jaskier’s eyes widened in recognition. 

“The witcher? Here, in Lettenhove? Is there a monster terrorizing the townspeople that I don’t know about?” he asked. 

The Queen laughed, shaking her head and patting Jaskier’s cheek the same as she had done to Yennefer. 

“Hardly, my son. Your father and I have been concerned with your behavior as of late. You do attract a lot of attention, love. The last thing we need is you getting hurt or finding yourself in a scrape you can’t get out of,” she explained. 

Jaskier didn’t seem surprised that his mother had concerns. Hmm. 

“I still don’t understand where the witcher comes in,” Jaskier said. 

The Queen smiled. 

“He’s a friend of Yennefer’s and he has graciously offered his services as your escort.” 

  
  


When Jaskier’s eyes fell on him again, Geralt bowed his head slightly. It was harder to bow to the prince, who Geralt was already not overly fond of, than it had been to bow to his parents. 

The Prince looked him up and down slowly, like the Queen had, but his eyes lingered on Geralt’s thighs, his arms, and finally his face. The faint scent of arousal filled the witcher’s nose. 

Gods above, the Prince was... _ attracted _ to him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jaskier said, offering his hand. 

Geralt took it because he didn’t want to make a bad impression on the people paying him on his first day on the job, commending himself on not flinching when Jaskier put his free hand atop Geralt’s so that it was trapped between both of his hands. 

“You as well, your highness,” Geralt said, easily breaking the Prince’s grip and pulling his hand back. 

Jaskier caught his hand before he got too far. 

“Oh please...call me Jaskier.” 

Oh yes. 

Geralt was going to have his hands full indeed, and the next time he saw Yennefer, he was definitely going to have to kill her. 

XXX

It didn’t surprise Geralt one bit that Jaskier was the one to offer to give him a tour of the castle. He laced his arm through Geralt’s, a wide grin on his face as he announced that he “simply must see the palace. Especially the gardens.” Apparently they were “to die for.” 

Geralt tuned out the prince’s idle chatter as he pointed out works of art that hung on walls, detailed exactly what he had gotten up to in each of the hidden nooks of the never ending corridors, and hummed nonsensical tunes when he didn’t have anything else to say. It didn’t take long for Geralt to pick up on the fact that Jaskier was very fond of the sound of his own voice. He didn’t seem to expect Geralt to respond. That was a small mercy at least. 

“Ah, and these are the gardens I was telling you about? Aren’t they magnificent?” Jaskier asked. 

Geralt let himself be dragged around various parts of the gardens, as he had been doing the entire tour because there was no way the prince actually possessed the strength to pull Geralt to and fro, toward. 

“This is my favorite spot,” Jaskier said, a playful glint in his eye that Geralt was more than a little wary of.

Jaskier brought him to a more secluded part of the garden, not that it mattered since they were already alone. He stopped, sighing dreamily as he plucked a yellow flower from the ground, reaching forward and tucking it into Geralt’s hair. 

Geralt resisted the urge land a swift punch to the princes gut. No doubt he’d be thrown in the dungeon instantly. Which might actually be preferable to being forced to stand still as Jaskier placed a few more flowers in Geralt’s hair. Dungeons he knew. They were familiar. Dark, cold, and damp. Always. But Jaskier...Jaskier was new and strange and more than a little eccentric. 

Geralt hated him. Though he was admittedly intrigued at the same time. Most people’s first reaction when they saw a witcher was to yell at him to leave their village, hire him to kill a monster, or throw vegetables at him. Never in all his life had he been faced with someone who ignored his mutations, which he knew were intimidating, and instead chose to flit about him and stick flowers in his hair. 

It was almost...endearing. 

_ Almost _ . 

“They’re buttercups,” Jaskier explained. “Jaskier means buttercup. Did you know that?” he asked, slipping one last flower behind Geralt’s ear before sliding his hands up his chest. 

The scent of arousal filled Geralt’s nose again, stronger this time, and it suddenly clicked in his brain exactly what Jaskier was up to. 

“You’re flirting with me.”

Jaskier didn’t blush or look chagrined in the slightest. Instead an easy,  _ dirty _ , smile graced his lips as slow as honey. 

“Well spotted, witcher,” he said, leaning up on his toes as his eyes fluttered shut. 

Geralt gave him a light shove backwards. Well, maybe more than a light shove as Jaskier, in his surprise, tripped over his own feet and landed flat on his ass. 

“W-what? Was that really necessary?” Jaskier sputtered indignantly. 

Geralt grimaced, reaching up to pluck the flowers from his hair. He let them drop to the ground, shaking his head at himself for letting this go so far in the first place. 

“Your parents hired me to be your escort,” he said seriously. 

Jaskier raised his eyebrows at him. 

“Yes, they did. So?”

Geralt sighed, offering the prince a hand up despite himself. Jaskier stumbled a bit with the force at which Geralt pulled him upright, looking a bit like he’d like to storm off in a huff, but Geralt’s grip on his hand was firm as he held him in place. 

“So I’m not here to sleep with you,” Geralt told him, voice something close to a growl. A warning. One that Jaskier either didn’t pick up on or was choosing to ignore. 

“You’re absolutely no fun,” he said with a pout. “And if you think I’ve not slept with escorts hired by dear old mumsy and dad in the past, then you are sorely mistaken.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes, letting Jaskier’s hand drop. 

“Do you even know the difference between an escort and a consort?” he asked. 

Jaskier smirked. 

“In my experience, there is no difference.” 

Geralt hummed. He shook his head and turned to head back into the castle.

“As my escort, you’re not supposed to leave me unattended!” Jaskier called after him. 

Geralt snorted, continuing his path away from the prince. Jaskier would follow. It wasn’t a leap for Geralt to figure out that Jaskier didn’t like to be ignored. Besides, the most dangerous thing in the garden at present was Jaskier’s sexual appetite. Which Geralt was starting to understand may be the reason he was hired. A prince who hides his sausages in pantries it doesn’t belong in would spell trouble for the kingdom. 

Still, when Geralt heard the sound of Jaskier’s boots behind him he couldn’t help the small twitch of his lips into a hidden smile.

He was right. 

Prince Jaskier would not be ignored. 


	2. Chapter Two

One week in, and Geralt wanted nothing more than to punch Jaskier in the stomach every time he opened his mouth, if only to give himself a moment of peace. 

Two weeks in, and he wanted to tie the prince to a chair to keep him from wandering off, chasing ladies maids and stable boys alike. 

A month in, and he would be ready to call it quits in the coin wasn’t so good. 

Despite Geralt’s obvious rebuffing of Jaskier’s attempts at seduction, the prince remained a truly shameless flirt. He lounged about his rooms in various states of undress, always leaning against things and sighing forlornly about how lonely it could be to be a royal. All to get Geralt’s attention of course. The witcher was sure he’d never seen the man with his doublet buttoned all the way, and honestly, it was getting ridiculous. 

It wasn’t that Jaskier was unattractive. Quite the opposite actually. No argument could be made that the prince wasn’t pleasant to look at. He had a carefree spirit that shown on his face and hair that was slightly overgrown where it curled behind his ears. His eyes, blue as cornflowers and brighter than most humans Geralt had met. 

Geralt had no qualms about admitting, at least to himself, that Jaskier was more than a little fair. 

If only he wasn’t completely insufferable each and every time he opened his mouth. 

“ _ Geralt _ ,” Jaskier whined, “I’m bored, let’s go out and do something. Take in the sights. Wander around the shops.”

Geralt spared Jaskier a glance from where he was sitting comfortably at a small tea table in the gardens the prince was so fond of. Jaskier himself was laying on his back on a bench, one knee up while his other leg dangled over the side. He had a book propped open on his lap. A book of poetry that he’d been reading aloud from until a few minutes ago. 

Geralt had actually been enjoying the sound of his voice. Jaskier read with passion, his lips curving pleasantly around each word. Every so often he would stop to laugh or sigh dreamily at a line that particularly moved him. All and all, not the worst way to spend an afternoon. 

But Jaskier was the restless sort and nothing entertained him for long, so when he put down the book Geralt knew the prince was about to make a request he was more than disinclined to go along with. 

Jaskier had forgone his doublet and was wearing only his chemise, only half of it tucked into his breeches. His feet here bare where they tapped agitatedly against the bench and ground respectively. 

“You’re not going anywhere in that state,” Geralt said gruffly. He had been hired as protection, to make sure Jaskier didn’t make a spectacle of himself. If he went out like that he’d get more than a few tongues wagging. Silly as it was, for propriety's sake he knew the King and Queen wouldn’t appreciate Geralt letting Jaskier waltz around in his current state of undress. 

Jaskier looked down at himself, frowning. 

“What do you mean?” he asked. There was an honest innocence in his voice. Hmm. Perhaps the rules of polite society were as lost on him as they were on Geralt. To be sure, the witcher could pretend if it was for the sake of coin, but he didn’t understand humans obsession with what other people were wearing. 

“You’re meant to be wearing a doublet,” Geralt sighed, getting to his feet and grabbing the doublet the prince had left draped across the back of the chair opposite Geralt. 

Jaskier rolled his eyes, but slipped his arms through the sleeves anyway, holding his arms out with raised brows. 

“Now can we go?” he asked. 

Geralt arched a brow back at him. 

“Button it.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, sighing a put upon sigh like he was a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, and not a prince being told to dress himself properly. Geralt couldn’t wait to see his reaction when he told him he’d need to put his boots on. 

“It tugs at my neck when it’s buttoned,” Jaskier complained, struggling to push the buttons through the holes. Must be the lack of practice. Geralt had no doubt in Jaskier’s experience at unbuttoning garments, but since he never had his doublet done up properly, he was left deft at closing them. 

After watching Jaskier struggle for a moment, Geralt decided it was time for him to step in. He batted the prince’s hands out of the way, replacing them with his own, doing the buttons with the practiced ease of someone who always wore their clothing the right way. Besides, witcher armor was far more complicated than a dozen or so measley buttons. 

Jaskier swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing when Geralt’s thumb brushed his neck as he did up the top button. Geralt ignored how pleasantly warm Jaskier’s skin was against his fingers and stepped back as soon as he was finished. 

“Um,” Jaskier said dumbly. “Can we--can we go to the shops now?”

Geralt looked down pointedly at Jaskier’s bare feet. 

“Boots first.”

Jaskier huffed, stomping over to the bench and sitting down to tug his boots back on, muttering something vaguely rude about Geralt under his breath that the witcher chose to let slide. 

“We can’t stay long. There’s--

“Yes, yes, there’s a ball, I know,” Jaskier sighed, hopping to his feet with that easy grin on his face again. “It’s hardly a party thrown in my honor if I don’t attend is it? Fear not, witcher, we’ll be back in plenty of time.”

Geralt shook his head as he followed Jaskier down the garden path toward the castle gates. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that they would return late, Jaskier having found something, or  _ someone _ , who tickled his fancy. 

XXX

They made it back to the castle ontime, but only just. Jaskier tripped in his haste to tug his boots off and would have fallen flat on his face had Geralt not caught him by the arm and held him steady. 

“Thank you, Geralt. Wouldn’t want to bruise my face before a party would I? The ladies would weep,” Jaskier said, shrugging out of his doublet and getting himself tangled in his chemise when he tried to yank it off over his head. 

Once he was freed, Jaskier moved to unbutton his pants, giving Geralt a pointed look. 

“Not that I’m not fond of your company, even if you’re about as talkative as a brick wall, but I believe I can have a bath without getting into trouble,” he said, though he didn’t pause in his undressing as he let his pants drop to the floor and oh, okay, no undergarments. 

Geralt’s eyes lingered on Jaskier’s shapely ass as he walked to the tub, looking back at Geralt over his shoulder with a cheeky smile. 

“Besides, you’ve got to get ready yourself...and you could use a bath” 

Geralt nodded, thankful for the excuse to leave the room before he did something ill advised like try to drown Jaskier in the bath for the comment about how he smelled. It wasn’t his fault that his clothing still smelled of horses, even after many washes. Years of sleeping in stables and run down inns had that effect on clothing. 

A bath did sound nice. And perhaps a mug of ale. Geralt had stayed carefully sober at the last ball and had suffered for hours, forced to watch Jaskier peacock about the room while some insufferable bard played annoying earworm jigs that Geralt unfortunately found himself humming for days after. 

There were clean clothes laid out on his bed. Judging by the golden pocket handkerchief with buttercups sew around the border, Jaskier had once again taken the liberty of having formal clothes made up for Geralt. If the witcher had his way, he would wear his usual black pants and jacket, but apparently it made him stand out too much. 

_ “Escorts are meant to blend in, Geralt,” Jaskier said, holding up a jacket that was a shade of green that bordered on garish. “If you stand there looking all witchery, everyone will be too wary of you to let loose and have fun.” _

_ Geralt had wanted to point out that a change of wardrobe, especially one involving such a heinous color, wasn’t likely to make him stand out any less. His mutations made it nearly impossible for such a thing. Humans had a knack for being drawn to anything different, even if it scared them. A man of Geralt’s statue, with yellow eyes and white hair, stuck out like a sore thumb.  _

_ “Though I suppose anyone with ill intent would be less likely to try anything with you standing there in your witcher getup,” Jaskier mused, and for a moment Geralt thought maybe he’d actually get to wear his armor. But then Jaskier was shaking his head and shoving the jacket at him. “No, I want my guests to enjoy themselves, so put that on and for the love of all that is holy drag a brush through your hair.” _

_ Not for the first time, Geralt had to remind himself that he punching the prince in the gut would earn him a trip to the dungeon. _

Two balls in a month seemed excessive. Geralt wondered if it was like this in other kingdoms or if it was only because Jaskier himself loved a party. Whatever the reason, Geralt grudgingly dressed in the clothes that had been made especially for him at the princes behest. They fit like a glove. Almost too tight, just as the last outfit had been and now Geralt suspected the prince had done it on purpose. 

Geralt brushed the tangles from his hair, tugging the top part back into a ponytail to keep it out of his face. It was for practicality. Should there be trouble at the ball, keeping his hair from falling in his eyes was necessary. It had nothing to do with the fact that Jaskier had mentioned how he liked the way Geralt’s hair looked this way. Not at all. 

Once he was dressed, Geralt made his way back to Jaskier’s rooms, nodding politely to the serving maids as he passed them in the hall. One of them giggled, blushing bright red and nearly dropping the tray she was carrying. 

Before he could knock on the door, it flew open. Jaskier was dressed in gold from head to toe. His doublet, Geralt noted, was buttoned up to the neck, the intricate lace of his chemise just visible over the top of the collar. That was a delicate gold crown of leaves that rested on his forehead, the likes of which Geralt hadn’t seen outside the kingdoms of the elves. Perhaps Jaskier had sent away for one. 

Jaskier gave Geralt a look of appraisal, a slight crease in his bow as he took in the open jacket. 

“I believe that jacket is meant to be worn closed. Or do the rules of polite society not apply to witchers?” he asked. 

Geralt glared at him.

“Your measurements were off,” Geralt deadpanned, attempting to close the jacket so Jaskier could see that it was impossible for him to button it. 

“Mmm, your chest is rather broad,” Jaskier drawled, trailing his fingers over the collar of Geralt’s jacket. 

Geralt smacked his hand away and gave him a stern look. 

“You’re late.” 

Jaskier waved his hand dismissively and started off down the hall. 

“A prince is never late.” 

Geralt shook his head, but followed him nonetheless. It was going to be a very long night. 

XXX

Jaskier was, as always an absolute hit. He was light on his feet, twirling ladies about the ballroom floor with ease, whispering goddess knows what in their ears and making them blush. A time or two he even jumped in to join in with the band, singing harmonies along with the bard who had been hired for the evening. 

Geralt was surprised at the ease with which Jaskier sang. Was it standard for princes to take music lessons? He’d noticed a lute in Jaskier’s bed chamber, but had yet to hear the man play it. Maybe it wasn’t just for show. 

“He’s a handful isn’t he?” 

Geralt turned to see the king coming toward him, a cup of wine in his hand that he passed to the witcher before turning to look at his son. Geralt hummed in acknowledgement, but said nothing else on the subject. The king laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. He’d clearly had more than a few cups of wine then. 

“You don’t need to spare my feelings. I’ve been his father for over two decades, I know what he’s like,” the king said, and despite the fondness in his voice for his son, there was a frown of disapproval on his face. “I admire his spirit, though I wish he’d learn to conduct himself with a bit more decorum.”

Geralt took a long sip from his cup, watching as Jaskier threw his head back with a laugh, his arms thrown around the two people he had introduced to Geralt as his best friends. Percy and Taz, Geralt recalled were their names. Percy was tall and stick thin, with a shock of red hair and freckles. He and Jaskier had met when they were being tutored together and had been inseparable ever since. And Taz...Taz was, in a word, enchanting. She had long blonde curls, all soft curves and bright smiles. It was no wonder Jaskier was fond of her. 

“I’m not sure about those two,” the king said. “Whenever Jaskier gets in trouble, they’re never far behind.” 

Geralt nodded. That much was true. But still--

“A prince needs companions,” Geralt mused. At least when Jaskier was off with Percy and Taz, Geralt got a break from him. 

“That he does,” the king agreed, wincing when Jaskier spilled a mug of ale down the front of his shirt. He’d long since lost the doublet, and the beer made his chemise nearly see through where it was stuck to his skin. “Perhaps you better--

Geralt was already moving toward the prince, a protective surge running through him that he hadn’t expected. 

“Your highness, it’s time you retire,” Geralt said, hoping the prince wouldn’t argue. 

But of course, this was Jaskier, and nothing was ever easy when he was involved. 

“What? But it’s so early!” Jaskier whined, bringing his mug to his lips and pouting when he realized it was empty. 

“Let him stay,” Percy said, laughing. “He’s having fun.” 

Taz smiled, sliding a hand up Geralt’s arm. 

“Don’t you ever have fun, witcher?” she asked, batting her eyelashes at him. 

Jaskier batted Taz’s hand away, looping his arm through Geralt’s.

“Oi! Get your own witcher, this one is mine,” he said petulantly. 

Taz shrugged, leaning heavily into Percy’s side, though her eyes were still trained on Geralt. She winked at him slyly, even as Percy’s arm slipped around her waist. Geralt grit his teeth. Was everyone around here a shameless flirt or had fate just seen fit to punish him?

Jaskier rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand as a child might, blinking up at Geralt sleepily. 

“Are you ready to go to bed now?” Geralt asked knowingly. 

Jaskier nodded, nuzzling his face into Geralt’s arm and allowing the witcher to lead him out of the ballroom and back to his room. 

“Did you have a good time?” Jaskier asked, his speech less slurred then Geralt expected it to be considering the amount of alcohol he had seen the prince imbibe. 

“I...I’m not one for parties,” Geralt said honestly, helping Jaskier to sit on the edge of the bed and pulling the prince’s boots off to avoid an inevitable catastrophe had Jaskier tried to do it himself. 

“‘M all sticky,” Jaskier said grimly, tugging at his ruined shirt. 

“Arms up,” Geralt ordered. 

Jaskier did as he was told, holding perfectly still as Geralt pulled the shirt off over his head. He wasn’t going to bother trying to get Jaskier into his night clothes. Better he spent the night in his breeches than for Geralt to attempt to get them off him. No doubt Jaskier wasn’t wearing anything under them and the last thing he needed was a naked prince on top of a drunk one. 

“Do you think the party will end now?” Jaskier asked, yawning directly into Geralt’s face. 

“Well, you were certainly the life of it, so it could hardly go on without you,” Geralt said, teasing Jaskier as he pushed him backwards to lay his on the pillow. The sooner he fell asleep the better. 

Jaskier snorted. 

“S’not real, you know,” he said quietly. 

Geralt frowned. 

“What’s not real?”

“T-the way they all act around me. Like--like they care w-what I say. L-like my jokes are funny. S’all business,” Jaskier said, voice suddenly sad. 

Geralt sighed. He’d seen more than a few humans like this. For many of them, one too many drinks meant they were plunged into a deep sadness, evaluating their lives and crying about their problems. He prayed Jaskier didn’t stop crying. He wasn’t good with tears, having spilled very few himself. 

“I’m sure that’s not--

“It’s true,” Jaskier said miserably. “Cept for Percy and Taz. T-they’re the only ones. B-but the rest of them put up with m-me cause they want to s-stay in my parent’s good graces. Because their own parents w-want peace with our kingdom.” 

Jaskier was curled away from Geralt, and though his shoulders were shaking, he wasn’t crying. 

“Sometimes...I wish I weren’t a prince.” 

Of all the things that had surprised Geralt about Jaskier over the past month, that one had him taken aback the most. He was under the impression that he loved being a prince and all the perks that went along with it. 

“What would you be?” Geralt found himself asking. “If you weren’t a prince.”

Jaskier rolled over to face him, his cheeks rosy from the beer and a small, secretive smile on his face. 

“A bard,” he said proudly, cuddling back against the pillow and closing his eyes. 

His breathing evened out and Geralt marveled at human’s ability to fall asleep so quickly. 

“You do have a nice voice,” Geralt confessed as he got up to leave. 

“I knew you liked me!” Jaskier called. 

Ah. 

Not asleep then. 

Fuck. 


	3. Chapter Three

Jaskier was late. 

Not an uncommon occurrence, but an annoyance all the same. 

Geralt watched the queen’s easy smile, the one she always wore at the start of council meetings, shift into a deep frown. The king had his fingers pressed to his temples, rubbing them as though he had a headache. He probably did. It was nearly twenty minutes past the time the meeting was meant to start and everyone was growing restless. Not like Jaskier generally contributed much at these meetings but, by royal law, he was required to be there. 

The queen sighed, gesturing to Geralt to come to her side. Normally he stayed out of the way at these things. They rarely got out of hand, though on one memorable occasion Jaskier made a comment about a duchess whose husband happened to be present and Geralt had to intervene before the man succeeded in strangling the life out of the shameless prince. 

“Would you be so kind as to see what is taking my son so long?” she asked, her voice coming out strained. 

Geralt nodded, excusing himself from the room and hastening down the hallway toward the prince’s chamber. He was prepared to douse him with a bucket of ice water over the head if necessary. It wasn’t strictly his job to get Jaskier out of bed, but the prince’s man servant, Harlow, was a timid thing who was no match for Jaskier’s charms. Poor lad was enamored by the prince. Geralt recalled the time he’d gone to see why Jaskier hadn’t gotten out of bed yet and found the prince on his knees with Harlow’s cock in his mouth. At least Harlow had the decency to blush. Jaskier shrugged, told Geralt he’d be out in ten minutes, and went right back to it. 

When Geralt reached the princes chamber it was a small mercy to find Harlow in the hallway, holding a breakfast tray and looking very put out. 

“Is he up?” Geralt asked, swiping an apple from the tray and taking a bite. 

Harlow huffed. 

“Said he didn’t want to be disturbed. Wanted a bit of time to himself this morning,” he said sourly. Ah, Jaskier had tired of him as a bedmate then. 

It wasn’t that Jaskier grew bored of people once he had them a time or two, it was that he always found someone new. Jaskier fell in love, or at the very least feel into deep infatuation, will all manner of people at the drop of a hate. But it was always fleeting, the attraction fading when a lady with a comely smile and auburn hair or a lord with more in his pants than bread to offer, strutted by him. 

“I’ll take that,” Geralt said, plucking the tray from Harlow’s hands and sending the sulking man servant on his way. 

He pushed open the door without a second thought, expecting to find Jaskier taking his sweet time in the bath or deciding which cologne to wear. 

The sight he was met with, however, was something else entirely. 

The curtains surrounding the four poster bed were wide open, the prince laid bare for anyone to see should they think it wise not to heed a man servant’s warning to waltz into the room unbidden. Jaskier’s eyes were squeezed shut, his head thrown back against his pillows, and his fingers stripping quickly over his cock. 

“O-oh, gods,” he huffed, thrusting into his own hand as his rhythm began to falter. 

Geralt should leave. He hadn’t been noticed yet. It would be easy for him to sneak out without a sound and--

The apple that Geralt forgot he’d been holding, slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor with a loud splat. 

Jaskier’s eyes flew open, locking with Geralt’s. His surprise melted into pleasure as he came hard over his fist with a choked off moan that had Geralt’s dick twitching in his pants. Fuck.

Geralt finally set the breakfast tray down on the table, clearing his throat and pointedly avoiding looking at Jaskier. He could still hear the prince panting as he came down from his post orgasm high, the smell of sex potent and making the hair on the back of Geralt’s neck stand on edge. 

“Apologies,” Geralt grunted into the silence. 

Jaskier hummed, not bothering to cover himself as he slipped from the bed and moved to the bath. 

“Hmm? Don’t be silly. I don’t mind being watched when the occasion calls for it,” Jaskier drawled, dipping a cloth into the bath water and using it to dry himself off. 

Geralt’s eyes lingered on the gentle curve of Jaskier’s neck, following a bead of sweat as it dripped from the back of his neck, down his spine. 

“Though I didn’t have you pegged as a voyeur,” Jaskier teased. “What do you think people would do if they found out that the Butcher of Blaviken liked to watch princes while they--

“Don’t call me that,” Geralt grit out, the words coming out harsh enough to make Jaskier’s mouth snap shut. “Spoiled princes who haven’t a clue how the world truly works, should keep their mouths shut on matters they don’t understand.”

There were plenty of names he could live with, insults and downright ridiculous ones included. But not that one. No one knew how what happened that day in Blaviken weighed on him. Everyday he carried the memory of holding Renfri as she died, of being stoned by villagers who thought him a man who killed for sport. It was not a name he wore with pride. 

“I meant no offense,” Jaskier said, his voice softer than Geralt had heard it before. 

Geralt should apologize for his words. He knew that Jaskier hadn’t meant any harm and that he was only using a name that he’d heard from someone else. But his blood was boiling and he needed to cool off. 

“You’re late for council. Go before your mother comes to collect you herself,” he said gruffly, all but stomping toward the door. 

“Are you not coming along then?” Jaskier called after him. 

Geralt grimaced. 

“If something goes wrong, yell. I’m sure I’ll hear you. You’re loud enough.”

And then he was gone, off to the stables to see Roach and hopefully calm the rapid beating of his heart. 

XXX

Any thoughts of having time to himself to chat with his horse flew from Geralt’s mind when he entered the barn to find a very familiar mage feeding Roach apple peels. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked. 

Yennefer scratched behind Roach’s ear, arching a brow at him. 

“I don’t even get a hello? After I took the time to portal all the way here and--

“I’m not in the mood, Yen,” Geralt said gruffly. 

Yennefer didn’t even flinch, long used to the witcher’s brusque nature. She sighed and walked away from Roach to stand in front of Geralt, a frown on her face. 

“I had a feeling that you might want a friend to talk to. Jaskier is hardly someone you would choose to associate with were it not your job to keep him out of harm’s way. I wanted to check and make sure that you were okay and that you hadn’t decided to strangle him yet...but if my company is unwanted, I’ll go,” she said, honest and not angry. It was always like that between them now, both willing to share each other’s company, but neither hurt when company wasn’t called for. 

“It’s not,” Geralt started, sighing and shaking his head. “It’s...good to see you,” he admitted. 

Yennefer hummed, leaning against the wall of the stable and assessing the witcher. Geralt tried to be still under her gaze, but Yennefer had a way of reading him like a book like no one else could. It was a startling thing, to be known so well. Comforting at times and unsettling at others. Whatever conclusion she came to left her with an amused smirk on her face. 

“You like him,” she mused. 

Geralt’s lips flattened into a thin line. 

“I don’t,” he said sternly. 

Yennefer’s smile widened and she laughed so hard her shoulders began to shake, enough to make Roach whinnie in concern and sniff at her hair. 

“Oh, Geralt, you do,” she said knowingly. 

It wasn’t something that Geralt was ready to say out loud. In fact, if everything went his way, his thoughts surrounding the prince would remain safely under lock and key. 

There was no denying that Jaskier was nice to look at. His eyes alone made Geralt’s stomach flip in a truly embarrassing fashion. And he was always taking Geralt’s arm when they walked together, his hand warm even though the fabric of the witcher’s shirt. Even his incessant babbling had become endearing. When he wasn’t royally putting his foot in it as he had done earlier. 

So yes, Geralt was fond of Jaskier. But that didn’t mean anything. He had no intention of pursuing anything with the prince, content with keeping him safe. The last thing he needed was to make this more than a job. 

“You need to be careful,” Yennefer said suddenly, pulling Geralt from his thoughts. 

Geralt snorted. 

“I think I can handle--

“Jaskier is easily hurt,” Yennefer interrupted him. 

Geralt fought to keep his face neutral despite the surprise he was feeling. 

“Thought the two of you didn’t get along,” Geralt mused. 

Yennefer shrugged. 

“Jaskier and I are just different, that’s all. I’m very fond of his mother and him as well actually, but I’ll kill you if you tell him that. But I’ve seen him get hurt time and time again because--

“He can’t keep it in his pants,” Geralt mumbled. 

“Because he falls in love with everyone, Geralt. He feels everything so deeply, I truly believe that he’s a little in love with every lady or lord he takes to his bed. And I’ve seen Rain make him cups of tea and rub his back when he cries after they leave.” 

Now that was a big surprise. Jaskier was carefree. Jaskier moved from partner to partner without a care. 

“He’s more careful now,” Yennefer said, as if reading Geralt’s thoughts. “Tries to keep from getting his heart broken by keeping his affairs briefer than he used to. The less time spent together, the less likely he is to form an attachment,” she said pointedly. 

Geralt understood. 

He and Jaskier spent the better part of most days together. 

If he had begun to grow attached to the prince, it would stand to reason that Jaskier would have a growing attachment to Geralt as well. His idle flirting could give way to something real if Geralt let it. 

He wouldn’t let it. 

Geralt opened his mouth to tell Yennefer as much when one of the King’s attendants entered the barn, out of breath. 

“T-the prince is gone,” the man stuttered, heaving in big gulps of air. He must have run all the way from the throne room. 

“What do you mean?” Geralt asked, already moving to ready Roach. 

“No one can find him. He’s not in his rooms or the gardens, or anywhere else in the castle.” 

Geralt cursed, thankful that he already had his swords hitched to his back as he stepped into the stirrup and heaved himself up onto Roach’s back. 

“I’ll stay with Rain,” Yennefer said, already excusing herself to make sure the queen was alright. 

Geralt steered Roach out of the barn and closed his eyes, sniffing the air and praying that Jaskier was not so far away that he couldn’t catch his scent. 

After what seemed like an age, the distinct smell of orange blossoms and vanilla filled his nose. It was faint, but enough for him to follow it to the woods beyond the castle. 

Geralt clicked at Roach, giving her a slight nudge with his foot. She broke into a canter, going where Geralt guided her, trusting her rider even though he was likely leading her into danger. 

“What was the fool thinking?” Geralt muttered to himself. 

He remembered the harsh way he had spoken to the prince earlier, praying that he would find him in time to save him from whatever trouble he had likely gotten himself into. 

_ Spoiled princes who haven’t a clue how the world truly works, should keep their mouths shut on matters they don’t understand. _

Geralt grit his teeth. 

Those words wouldn’t be the last thing Jaskier remembered. 

They couldn’t be. 


	4. Chapter Four

It took longer for Geralt to find Jaskier than he had anticipated. Mostly due to the fact that he decided it was best to travel on foot, should he need the element of surprise on his side. Once Jaskier’s scent had gotten stronger, he’d left Roach behind, confident that she could handle any trouble that came her way. She knew to run if there was danger. 

Geralt’s ears perked up at the sound of voices, the crackle of a fire, a cry of pain. A cry that the witcher knew had come from Jaskier. Fuck. He kept himself safely hidden in the brush, pushing down the instinct to run in with his sword drawn. It was never smart to rush into danger without any semblance of a plan, even when Geralt was personally invested. He took a breath, peering through the thick leaves of the bushes he was hiding behind to assess the situation. 

There were four men, bandits if their attire was anything to go on. Geralt had taken on more than four men at a time. It’s not like it would be a difficult thing to dispatch them but--

Geralt’s thoughts were put on pause when he caught sight of Jaskier.

The prince was doubled over on his hands and knees. He’d been stripped of his doublet and breeches, left in his undershirt and a thin pair of pants. That was a small mercy, Geralt thought, thankful they didn’t catch Jaskier on a day when he had decided to forgo his smallclothes entirely. Geralt’s lip twitched into a snarl when he saw the blood dripping from Jaskier’s nose and mouth. 

One of the bandits was holding Jaskier’s lute, plucking crudely at the strings. He examined the instrument, a pensive look on his face. 

“A fine instrument,” he mused, setting it to the side and stalking over to the prince. He must be the leader, Geralt figured. 

“Bet it’ll getch a fair price,” another man jeered. “Wouldn’t you say, Pitch?”

The leader, Pitch apparently, hummed, crouching down in front of Jaskier. He grabbed a handful of his hair, yanking his head backwards. 

“A perfectly made instrument, finely made clothes, and this,” he said, hooking his finger through the necklace Jaskier always wore. It was important to the prince, Geralt was sure. He had a vague recollection of being told the story of its origin. A present from his grandmother shortly before she died. “How’s a humble bard come across such finery?” the bandit asked. 

_ Don’t say anything stupid _ , Gerlat thought, his hand creeping around to curl around the hilt of his sword just in case. 

“It was a gift. My family is wealthy. Very wealthy, in fact. I-if you let me go, they’ll pay,” Jaskier said, another cry catching in his throat when the man in front of him yanked the piece of jewelry from his neck. 

Geralt’s eyes slipped shut, sighing. Jaskier was smart. It was logical to assume the bandits would jump at the chance of coin. But he underestimated the men’s greed. Now that they knew that his family had coin, they’d hold Jaskier until the coin was paid and they seemed the type to cut off a finger or a limb as collateral. Let the royals know that they mean business and all that. When one of the men reared back to deliver another kick, Geralt made his presence known. 

“Four on one hardly seems fair,” he said, stepping out of the brush, sword already in hand. “He’s just a bard afterall.” 

Pitch got to his feet and crossed his arms. 

“More than a bard, I reckon. Says his family has money,” the man said, grabbing Jaskier by the hair again and pulling him to his feet. 

Jaskier’s eyes were wide and scared when they landed on Geralt. The witcher swallowed hard, trying to keep his calm as his eyes tracked a drop of blood that dripped down Jaskier’s chin and onto the pretty blue undershirt he was wearing. 

“Bards say a lot of things,” Geralt said, eyeing the other three men who were trying to be subtle about the way they were beginning to circle him. “Doesn’t make any of them true.” 

Pitch snorted. 

“True enough, witcher. But I believe him. He’s got the jewels to back it up,” he said, dangling the necklace for Geralt to see. “It’s got nothing to do with you, anyway. Be on your way and we won’t spill any blood.”

Geralt smirked. Pitch was well spoken enough, but he clearly didn’t have the smarts to back it up. Did he think the witcher couldn’t see his men drawing their weapons as they circled him? Still, he’d have to be quick. One wrong move and the man could make use of the dagger he had sheathed at his hip. 

“I’m not leaving without the bard,” Geralt snarled. 

No sooner had the words left his mouth, then the first of the bandits was lunging at him, dagger at the ready. Geralt smashed his elbow into the man’s nose, running him through with his sword easily when he stumbled in surprise at the unexpected blow. 

Silence settled, as it always did after the first blood was drawn. Geralt could feel the other men trying to decide if it was worth it to attack him and risk their own necks. 

“What are you standing about gawking for?!” Pitch snapped. “Kill him!”

Jolted from their stupor, the men descended on him. Geralt dodged their blows easily, only stumbling a bit when he saw Pitch drawing his dagger and holding it up to Jaskier’s throat, other arm around the prince’s chest as he started to drag him backwards. He was about to make a run for them and hope the other two men wouldn’t give chase, when Jaskier threw his head back. Geralt heard the sickening crunch of a nose being broken, Pitch letting go of Jaskier to hold his injured face and giving the prince ample time to run away. Except he didn’t run away, choosing instead to land another blow with his fist straight to Pitch’s temple, sending him to the ground. 

With Pitch incapacited, the remaining two bandits turned tail and ran. Smart men, Geralt thought. Cowardly. But smart. 

Sword safely sheathed, Geralt moved to Jaskier, surprised when the prince shied away from him. He’d pressed himself back against a tree and was biting at the rope that bound his hands. 

“Let me--

“I’m fine,” Jaskier cut him off, avoiding his eye as he continued to struggle to free himself. 

Geralt frowned, unused to the prince being anything but overt in his flirtation, still content to chat about any and all things on his mind when the witcher didn’t rise to the bait. Now, Jaskier was pointedly looking away, his cheeks pink and his mouth set in a hard line. 

He’s waiting to be scolded, Geralt realized, the thought increasing his guilt ten fold. It was never his intention to make Jaskier feel this way. Butcher was not a name he reacted to with anything but disgust and hearing the cruel nickname from Jaskier’s lips had smarted more than he expected it to. Clearly his own words affected the prince as much as Jaskier’s had affected him. 

“Jas--

“Whatever you’re going to say, I don’t want to hear it. I know it was stupid. I know I shouldn’t have left on my own, but...but you were right,” Jaskier said, sounding dangerously close to tears. “I don’t know anything. I’ve hardly left the palace unless it was to travel by carriage to another kingdom. Sweet Melitele, I want to see the world as a bard and not as a, how did you put it? A spoiled prince without a clue how the world really works.” 

Geralt winced. That had been rather harsh. 

The prince huffed, glaring at where his hands were bound, having only succeeded in making them tighter with all his fidgeting. 

“May as well say what it is you want to say I suppose. Go ahead. Tell me I’m an idiot. You must be dying to say I told you so,” Jaskier said bitterly. 

Geralt huffed. He stepped into Jaskier’s space, hands coming up to still Jaskier’s own because if he kept wriggling against his bonds like that he was going to give himself some serious rope burn. Jaskier didn’t try to move away this time, but he was practically frozen as Geralt untied the knots. 

“I...” Geralt trailed off, unsure of what to say. He had a knack for making things worse whenever he opened his mouth, which was why he often chose to say nothing at all. He tried to press on. 

“I’m glad you’re--

Geralt cut himself off with a hiss of frustration.  _ I’m glad you’re safe _ . Why was that so hard to say? 

Jaskier was staring at him expectantly, though he no longer looked like he was waiting for Geralt to say something nasty. There was confusion in the furrow of his brow. Geralt sighed and shook his head, trying to remember the last time he’d felt so completely and utterly stupid. Not since he was a boy, when he’d gone out into the world as a witcher and been run out of the first town he stepped foot in, with actual torches and pitchforks, cruel names hurled at his back. 

Geralt finished freeing Jaskier’s hands, but didn’t let go. His thumbs brushed gently over the reddened skin of the prince’s wrists. Jaskier’s breath hitched and his eyes finally met Geralt’s. The witcher wasn’t the praying kind, but now he prayed to every god and goddess he could think of that Jaskier would understand what he was trying to say without him actually having to form the words. 

_ I’m glad you’re safe _ . 

_ I’m sorry I hurt your feelings _ . 

_ I’m sorry you _ \--

What was gearing up to be a truly tender moment was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a crossbow being fired. 

Geralt, too caught up in Jaskier to care about his own well being, wasn’t quick enough to dodge the arrow before it pierced his shoulder. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier cried. 

The witcher pushed Jaskier behind him as he turned, sword drawn, to face whoever had let loose the arrow. Pitch grinned menacingly at him, having woken from his forced slumber, crossbow now aimed at Geralt’s forehead. 

“You’re going to miss,” Geralt warned him. 

Pitch laughed, not caring about the blood dripping into his mouth from his broken nose and let the arrow fly. 

Jaskier let out a panicked cry. The arrow was fast...but Geralt was faster. One of the benefits of the mutations he’d endured; inhumanly fast reflexes. 

Geralt knocked the arrow aside with his sword. In another situation, he may have smirked in satisfaction at the look on Pitch’s face. But now, he wanted nothing more than to tear the man for threads for daring to touch a single hair on Jaskier’s head. 

Before Pitch could even think about reloading the crossbow, Geralt crossed the distance between the two of them, running the man clear through with his sword. The witcher didn’t take pleasure in killing anyone. He never had. Even if it was for a good reason. But he couldn’t deny the sick satisfaction that settled in his gut as he pulled his sword free and watched the man fall in a heap on the ground. 

Something shiny around the bandit’s wrist caught Geralt’s eye. Jaskier’s necklace. He bent to retrieve the piece of jewelry and then returned to Jaskier, offering it to him. The prince accepted it with shaking hands. 

Geralt noticed that Jaskier’s lip had reopened, blood once again dribbling down his chin. He swiped it away with his thumb. 

“Let me check your injuries,” he said, leaving no room for the prince to argue. 

Or so he thought. 

Jaskier snapped out of his stupor, smacking Geralt’s hands away. 

“My injuries?! Are you--hang  _ my _ injuries, Geralt! You’ve got an arrow in your shoulder!” Jaskier shouted. 

Geralt frowned, glancing down at his wound. It wasn’t bad. The arrow had gone all the way through which was unfortunate, but also made for an easier removal process. Besides, he healed much faster than an ordinary man. 

“I’ve had worse,” Geralt said, hoping his words would ease Jaskier’s panic. 

They didn’t. 

The look of complete and utter indignation of the prince’s face was almost laughable. 

Almost. 

“Is that meant to make me feel better? Because it doesn’t in the slightest. Goddess above, what do they teach at Kaer Morhen? If you haven’t lost a limb then you should be able to walk it off?!” Jaskier asked. 

Geralt knew the question was rhetorical, but Jaskier had managed to hit close to the truth. Witchers are taught to ignore injuries that aren’t fatal, at least until they have a moment to themselves to patch the wound up. There wasn’t time for caution during a monster fight, always something more important to worry about. At the moment that  _ something _ was Jaskier. 

“Let me--

Geralt tried once again to put his hands on Jaskier, only to be slapped away again. He took a deep breath, trying not to get angry.

“You first,” Jaskier said stubbornly, eyeing the arrow. His gaze was wary despite the vehemence in his voice. “I-I want to help but I don’t know...you’ll have to tell me what to do.” 

Geralt glanced at the sky. It wasn’t starting to get dark yet, which meant they had time to get back to the palace before the threat of hungry wolves or any number of other creatures set in. The arrow was beginning to smart a little and, though he hated to admit it, Jaskier was probably right. His injury was the more pressing of the two of them. 

“Fine,” Geralt conceded, giving a loud whistle to signal for Roach to come to him. He was thankful he’d replenished his supplies recently, so once Roach found them they would have what both of them needed. 

Geralt sat heavily on a tree stump, gesturing for Jaskier. The prince tripped over himself in his haste to get the Geralt, making the witcher snicker. 

“I need you to break the arrow from the back,” Geralt told him. 

He sat still as stone as Jaskier moved to stand behind him, curling his fingers around the arrow. 

“Snap it as close to the wound as you can, but try to avoid letting it splinter too much,” Geralt instructed. He couldn’t really see what Jaskier was doing so he would just have to trust that the prince wasn’t making it worse. From the satisfying sound of the wood breaking, he guessed Jaskier had done okay. 

Roach came into view a few minutes later, immediately snuffling at Geralt’s hair, fussing over him. 

“M’fine, Roach,” Geralt grunted, pushing at her nose but giving her mane a scratch to show he appreciated that she cared. “There are bandages in my bag,” Geralt said, words directed at Jaskier now. “Grab the green salve and one of the red potions.” 

Jaskier did as he was told, but not without muttering something about Geralt being bossy. 

Geralt downed the potion the second Jaskier handed it to him, yanking the cork out with his teeth and pouring the contents down his throat. He wiped a bit of it that had dripped down his chin, grimacing at the taste. He’d been taking the same potions for years, but he could never get used to the bitter, unpleasant flavor of most of them. 

With the healing process already beginning, the next step was to get the arrow out, before his muscles started to heal around it. 

“Make sure you have a strong grip,” Geralt told Jaskier, gritting his teeth when the prince jostled that arrow by accident. 

“I’m sorry!” Jaskier said quickly. “I wasn’t trying to-

“I know. It’s okay. But we need to get it out. Quickly. So, on the count of--fuck!”

Geralt cursed when Jaskier pulled the arrow out without warning, glaring up at the prince, who for once in his life had the decency to look sheepish. 

“I thought it would hurt less if you didn’t know when I was going to remove it.” 

Geralt grimaced. 

“It didn’t.” 

“Yes, well, I know that  _ now _ . Next time, because with the way you live I’m sure there’ll be a next time, I’ll be sure to inform you before I--

“The salve,” Geralt interrupted, yanking his shirt off over his head quickly, hissing at the pain. 

“I could have helped you with that,” Jaskier mumbled, unscrewing the cap on the jar of the earthy green salve. 

Geralt hummed in response. Yes. Jaskier could have helped him take off his shirt, but the few times he’d allowed himself to wonder what it would be like to let the prince peel off each article of his clothing on by one, he never imagined it would be because he needed to patch Geralt up after a fight. 

Jaskier didn’t wait for Geralt to give instruction that time, scooping a libral amount of the salve onto his fingers and rubbing it gingerly into the wound. 

“I was under the impression salve wasn’t meant for open wounds like this,” Jaskier mused. “Aren’t we meant to cauterize it?” 

Geralt was surprised that Jaskier would know such a thing. Must have read it in a book or overheard a war story or two. 

“Witcher’s heal differently,” he explained. “Potion does what cauterizing it would do. Salve does the rest.” 

Jaskier nodded, listening intently even as he kept his eyes fixed on the task at hand. When he finished putting salve on either side of the wound, he reached for the bandages, wrapping Geralt’s shoulder with a deftness that the witcher didn’t expect. 

“Bedded a nurse for a while,” Jaskier said. 

Geralt huffed. 

“I didn’t ask,” he grumbled. 

Jaskier smiled, his fingers lingering on Geralt’s shoulder, thumb brushing the witcher’s collar bone. Geralt absolutely did not shiver. Not even a little bit. 

“No,” Jaskier said, an easy, knowing grin on his face. “But you wanted to.” 


	5. Chapter Five

“I can’t believe you used that disgusting dagger to cut my shirt open. I mean really Geralt, could you not have just helped me take it off? Did you have to ruin it? It was one of my favorites,” Jaskier groussed, staring at the heap of ruined fabric on the ground beside his feet. 

Geralt was tempted to remind the prince that he had tried to take the shirt off his first, but Jaskier had barely been able to lift his arms up high enough and the pain in doing so was written all over his face. The prince wasn’t accustomed to taking a beating the same way Geralt was. The less they aggravated his injuries, the better. Which was why he had taken it upon himself to slice the shirt open and slide it off Jaskier’s arms without the prince having to lift a finger. It was meant to cause him the least amount of pain, but Geralt wondered if it was worth it to have to hear Jaskier complain about the shirt as if he didn’t have a dozen or so more just like it. 

It was best to ignore Jaskier’s rambling, so Geralt turned his attention to his bruised midsection. When he touched his fingers, carefully, against one of the larger bruises, Jaskier hissed and slapped his hand away. 

“I have to make sure none of your ribs are broken,” Geralt explained, trying to hold onto the little shred of patience he had left. 

“Well then perhaps you could do it a bit more  _ gently _ ,” Jaskier snapped.

It wasn’t often that Jaskier worked himself into a true strop, but if there were ever a time that it was appropriate, it was now. Despite the brave face the prince was putting on, Geralt wagered he was fairly shaken. Growing up safely behind the palace walls, Jaskier had never truly been exposed to the cruelty that the world had to offer. Had he been better with words, the witcher might have said something reassuring, and he should really apologize. Afterall, it was his words that had made Jaskier storm off in the first place. 

Instead he resumed his assessment of Jaskier’s ribs, taking care to be gentler this time. Jaskier had finally quieted down. In fact, he was sitting so still Geralt was starting to get worried. He glanced up at the prince’s face, swallowing hard at the light blush that was dusting his cheeks, eye’s soft when they rested on the witcher. 

No one had ever looked at him like that. 

“They’re not broken,” Geralt said, pushing away from Jaskier to grab a different jar of salve from his bag. This one was meant for humans. He’d started to carry human medicines and supplies when he’d taken the job, since all his witcher things would be too strong for Jaskier, should he get hurt. Geralt grabbed his waterskin and a clean cloth and walked back over the prince, who hadn’t moved an inch. 

Jaskier stayed quiet while Geralt rubbed salve into the bruises on his ribs, but the witcher didn’t miss the way his hands were shaking. He sighed, poured water onto the cloth, and dabbed at the cut on Jaskier’s brow. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said, distracting himself from his nerves by keeping focused on the task at hand. Jaskier deserved an apology and Geralt had given it. That should be enough. They should be--

“I’m sorry too,” Jaskier said, his voice soft. “If you hadn’t come along when you did I...They might have...

He trailed off, breath catching when Geralt brought the cloth to his trembling bottom lip. Gods, there were tears in Jaskier’s eyes now. Geralt wasn’t prepared for tears. Luckily, the prince seemed determined not to actually let them fall. His fingers circled Geralt’s wrist and he squeezed hard, keeping himself grounded as he took a few deep breaths, eyes squeezed shut. 

Geralt patted Jaskier’s shoulder awkwardly, clearing his throat. 

“You’re, um, you’re okay. Don’t...don’t cry.” 

Jaskier opened his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitched up in a small smile. 

“Are you trying to comfort me?” he asked. 

Geralt shrugged. 

“Is it working?” 

Jaskier huffed a laugh, shaking his head and wiping away the one tear that had managed to escape. 

“You know, it actually is,” he said, and the smile on his face absolutely didn’t make Geralt’s heart skip a beat. Nope. Not at all. “Thank you, by the way.”

Geralt frowned. 

“For what?” he asked.

Jaskier slipped his fingers from Geralt’s wrist, taking the witcher’s hand in his. He traced Geralt’s knuckles with his fingers, gaze almost shy when their eyes met. 

“For saving me.”

They were so close, Geralt could feel Jaskier’s breath fanning out across his face. He could hear the prince’s heart beat, faster than a human’s heart was meant to beat. And his eyes...he was really going to have to stop looking at Geralt like that. Like he mattered. 

The cloth Geralt had been holding slipped from between his fingers, joining Jaskier’s soiled shirt on the ground. 

“It’s my job,” Geralt said gruffling, eager to get back to familiar territory. This was a job. He was meant to protect Jaskier. That’s what he was being paid for. It wasn’t--

“Is that all it is?” Jaskier asked, and there was hope in his voice. Hope that Geralt needed to snuff out as soon as possible, because this couldn’t happen. But then Jaskier was bringing Geralt’s hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles and Geralt would deny with his dying breath the low, broken, whine that left his mouth. 

A wolf howling in the distance saved Geralt from having to come up with an answer, as he was reminded that they were still in the forest with night just beginning to fall. It was dangerous for them to stay, for more reason than one. Anything could happen out in the woods, when adrenaline was high and judgement was clouded. 

“Come on,” Geralt said, helping Jaskier to his feet and leading him to Roach. He pulled his cloak from his bag and threw it around the prince’s shoulders. His own shirt hadn’t been so ruined by the arrow that he couldn’t put it back on, so the cloak would do the half naked prince more good than the witcher. 

“Geralt--

The witcher shook his head and hefted Jaskier up onto Roach’s back, settling in behind him and taking hold of the reigns. 

“It’s not safe,” he said, hoping Jaskier would understand. 

It wasn’t safe in the woods. 

It was less safe for Jaskier to even entertain the idea of... _ being with _ Geralt. 

Jaskier was silent, but he relaxed against Geralt, his head against his shoulder. 

Geralt sighed. 

The prince clearly didn’t understand at all. 

XXX

Avoiding Jaskier was not an easy task considering it was Geralt’s job to tail him wherever he went. But he could make sure that he kept a safe distance away at council meetings and he had any number of excuses at the ready when Jaskier invited him out to the gardens or into his chambers to hear some new song he’d been composing. 

“Eventually, he’s going to notice,” Geralt grumbled to Roach as he brushed her. One of the stableboys had been assigned to Roach’s care and upkeep, but Geralt preferred to do it himself. Besides, he’d never been shy about admitting that he liked her company over anyone else's. She listened and even if she often judged Geralt by giving his shoulder a shove with her snout or flicking him with her tail, at least she did so silently. 

“Can’t imagine his parents would be thrilled if he took up with a witcher,” Geralt continued. Although Jaskier’s parents were the least of his worries. Above all else, it was the prince’s safety that mattered and, as a human, he had no business being with Geralt. A witcher’s life was a dangerous one and Jaskier’s little adventure in the woods a few weeks ago had reminded Geralt just how fragile the prince was. 

It was stupid for Jaskier to get attached to Geralt...even if the witcher had grown more than a little attached himself. 

“Maybe I’m the stupid one,” he confided in Roach, smiling when she snorted and gave him an affectionate bump with her nose. 

“Do you always talk to your horse?”

Geralt bristled at the voice. 

Taz. 

He didn’t much care for any of Jaskier’s friends, but something about Taz in particular rubbed him the wrong way. She was as forward with her flirtations as Jaskier was, but while Geralt found Jaskier's endearing (yes, he could at least admit that much to himself), Taz’s put him on edge. 

“She’s a good listener,” Geralt grunted, turning to regard Taz with a neutral stare. She was beautiful, he’d give her that much. He kept still as she stalked toward him, eyeing him the way a wolf eyed it’s prey. 

“I can be a good listener too,” she breathed, sliding her hands up Geralt’s arms, pressing herself so close he could feel the swell of her breasts against his chest. 

It was then that Geralt smelled it. 

He’d grown used to the soft, femine smell that lingered whenever Taz passed him in the corridor. It was stronger now, laced with something darker. Something inhuman. 

“What are you?” Geralt asked calmly. 

Taz’s face fell. Her eyes going sharp as whatever glamour she’d been using began to fade at the edges, her surprise causing a shift in her ability to keep herself hidden. Geralt was hit with a nose full of pheromones, ones that would have knocked an ordinary man flat on his ass. Geralt was on her in an instant, flattening Taz against the ground, pinning her wrists above her head. 

“A succubus,” Geralt snarled. 

Taz huffed, shaking her curls from her eyes. Eyes that had once been bright green, but were now an eery shade of red. She didn’t look particularly scared to have the witcher over her like this. In fact, she looked pleased. Far more pleased that Geralt would have liked. 

“I prefer the term Sex Demon actually. See, I prefer to feed on the sexual energy of others without actually having to engage in the activity myself,” she drawled, giving Geralt a look of appreciation, her tongue between her too sharp teeth. “I’m picky about my own bed partners. I had rather hoped you’d be willing. Come on witcher, wouldn’t you like a nice roll in the hay? You look like you could use one.”

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you right now,” Geralt growled. It was meant to be a threat. He didn’t expect a genuine reason, but Taz was ready to give him one. 

“Because you only kill monsters and I promise you witcher, I’m no monster.” 

Geralt was intrigued by the response, though the animal instinct to kill any threat that presented itself had settled in his stomach. He pushed it down, letting go of Taz’s wrists in favor of pulling out his knife to keep her on her toes. 

“Talk,” he demanded. 

Taz rolled her eyes at the knife, but didn’t try to coax him into putting it away. 

“I’m a succubus, that much is true. But I haven’t used my...abilities to bring people to their knees with lust in at least two decades,” Taz explained, plucking a piece of straw from her hair and letting it fall away. “I feed on preexisting desire. Lust that humans create and bring to fruition themselves.” 

Geralt frowned. He’d never known a succubus to behave like that. Then again, he’d never known a succubus who didn’t have a million bed partners at their beck and call either.

“It must be more difficult that way,” Geralt mused. 

Taz snorted. 

“It is. Very. Why do you think we’ve remained with Jaskier so long? It’s not often one finds someone with not only want, but pure love flowing through their veins,” she said. There was a fondness in her voice that Geralt hadn’t expected, but his frown deepens as he realized what she had said. 

“We?”

Taz looked frightened, a look Geralt hadn’t seen on her before. He found he didn’t like it. So far, she’d given him no reason to doubt that she was just a creature trying to survive and not a monster. It dawned on him then, what she must have meant. 

“Percy’s an incubus,” he said. It made sense. Sex demons did tend to travel in pairs. 

“Yes,” Taz admitted, still looking worried. Her hackles were up now and Geralt’s fingers unconsciously tightened around his knife. A spooked sex demon was a dangerous one.

“We haven’t hurt anyone. Not in decades, I swear to you. Haven’t you wondered why your contracts began to dwindle? Monsters, if that’s what we have been deemed by the common folk, are sick of dying,” Taz said seriously. “We want to live. So we’ve adapted.” 

It made sense. It was more than reasonable as far as Geralt was concerned. 

“We’ll have to leave now though,” Taz said sadly. 

“Why?” Geralt asked. 

“Now that you know about us, it’s only a matter of time before someone else figures it out. Besides, we’ve been here for nearly a decade. Someone is going to notice that we haven’t aged. Percy looks younger than he is and he can pass for a young lad, but he and Jaskier have been friends for years. It’s--it’s about time we moved on.”

The genuine sadness in her voice made Geralt’s heart ache a little. It was too familiar. Never being able to settle. Never having a true home. Something witchers knew too well. 

Taz sighed, crawling toward Geralt on all fours. He gave her a warning look. 

“Oh relax, I know it’s not me you want. I believe Jaskier has that particular honor,” she teased. 

Geralt glared at her. 

“It’s not--

“Oh please. Even a blind man could see how you feel about him. You could have him you know? He wouldn’t be averse, believe me. I’ve heard him wax poetry about your ass on more than one occasion,” she said, stopping right in front of Geralt, her hands on his shoulders. 

“What are you--

“I just want to see if it’s true,” she explained, brushing her nose against his. “That witchers are immune to sex magic.” 

Taz pressed her lips to Geralt’s before he could protest and he felt...nothing. Just as he knew he wouldn’t. 

“Right, Geralt! I know you don’t want to, but we need to talk and--

Geralt shoved Taz away from him at the sound of Jaskier’s voice, looking up just in time to catch the moment Jaskier’s eyes landed on them. The moment the prince’s heart shattered into a million pieces. It was plain on his face. But before Geralt could explain Jaskier was turning on his heel to run from the barn, only to be stopped by a wild looking Percy. He caught Jaskier around the waist, a hand on his neck. 

“Let her go, witcher,” he snarled, clearly misreading the situation. 

Taz got to her feet. 

“Percy, it’s fine. I’ve taken care of--

Percy, not listening, abruptly spun Jaskier around, grabbed him by the cheeks and planted a kiss on his lips. 

Oh shit. 

“Percy, what the hell are you doing?” Taz demanded. 

“Better let her go so you can take care of the prince, witcher,” Percy sneered. “He’s going to need it.” 

“Oh for the love of--

Taz stalked over to Percy, cuffing him around the back of the head. 

“What the hell was that for?! I was saving you!” Percy cried. 

“I already saved us, you idiot! We’re free to go on our way, just as we had been planning to do anyway!” Taz yelled at him. 

“...Oh,” Percy paled, his eyes dropping to Jaskier who was beginning to slump against his side as the sex magic took hold. “So I didn’t need to--

“Dose the prince with sex magic even though we don’t fucking do that anymore?” Taz finished angrily. “No, you didn’t.” 

“Right...sorry,” Percy said sheepishly, helping Jaskier closer to Geralt. “Um, I suppose you’ll want to deal with this then?”

Without waiting for Geralt to respond, Percy shoved Jaskier at him and grabbed Taz by the hand, running with her out of the barn. 

“Good luck, Geralt!” Taz yelled over her shoulder. 

Geralt was half tempted to go after them, but then Jaskier was pressing against him, warm and pliant. He had a dazed look on his face, looking up at Geralt with heavy lidded eyes, his hands running over Geralt’s chest. 

“Mmm, you’re so...pretty,” Jaskier mused, giggling and running his fingers through Geralt’s hair. He leaned up on his toes as if to kiss the witcher. Geralt dodged the kiss easily and with little effort, swung the prince over his shoulder, working out in his head the most discreet way to get Jaskier into his chambers. The less people who saw him like this, the better. 

Geralt absolutely did not yelp when Jaskier gave his ass a pinch. 

“Behave yourself,” he snarled. 

Jaskier hummed, pinching again. 

“Make me.” 


	6. Chapter Six

Geralt had been swallowed by a Selkimore. 

He’d nearly had his eyes scratched out by a Harpy. 

On more than one occasion he’d found himself on the bad side of a mage and wound up cursed. 

None of those things were as difficult as getting Jaskier back to his chambers. 

The walk from the stables to the palace wasn’t a long one, but it was made longer by Jaskier’s refusal to hold still. And going unnoticed was practically impossible, since the prince was even less capable of keeping his mouth shut than usual. Geralt didn’t think it was possible for Jaskier to talk more than he did on a regular basis, but apparently being dosed with sex magical completely eliminated what little brain to mouth filter he had left. 

“Gods, Geralt, please. Let me get my hands on you. O-or you could get your hands on me.  _ Please _ ,” Jaskier whined, pawing at every bit of Geralt he could reach from where he was slung over the witcher’s shoulder. 

Geralt resolutely ignored him, but he couldn’t help the way his breath caught when the prince pushed himself up enough to lock his arms around Geralt’s neck, catching his earlobe between his teeth. 

“Jaskier, stop,” Geralt said seriously, swinging the prince into his arms bridal style so he could keep a better eye on him. 

“Can’t. Want you too bad,” Jaskier panted, struggling against the hold that Geralt had on his wrists. “Come on witcher, I’d be good for you. You know I would be.” 

Geralt had never been one to dance, but he could have done a celebratory jig when he finally reached the prince’s chambers. He had to be quick. The sex magic was temporary and would likely wear off in a couple of hours, but if left unsatisfied, Jaskier would be in excruciating pain. Considering Geralt had no intention of satisfying the prince, he had to come up with an alternative. The safest option would be to dose Jaskier with a sleeping potion and let the prince sleep it off. 

He plopped Jaskier unceremoniously onto the bed and turned to grab one of the sleeping draughts he knew were in the top drawer of Jaskier’s bedside table for his occasional bouts of insomnia. Jaskier slid his hands up Geralt’s back, pressing close.

“I’d be good  _ to _ you, if that’s the way you prefered it,” Jaskier purred, grinning when he felt a shiver go through the witcher’s body. “Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you? Having me take charge of you? Mmm, you’ve no idea the ways I’ve imagined I’d have you if you’d let me.” 

Geralt took a slow breath in and out, giving Jaskier a shove that was hard enough to send him onto his back on the bed, and quickly grabbing the potion. But Jaskier wasn’t deterred, locking his legs around Geralt’s hips when the witcher crawled over him. 

“Jaskier, you’ve got to have--

“I’ve got to have  _ you _ . The things I could do to you, Geralt. I’ve got a very talented mouth you know,” Jaskier teased, running his hands up Geralt’s chest, pouting when Geralt caught his wrists and pinned them above his head. “I could take you apart and you’d fucking love it. You’d beg for it. Bet you’d sound pretty, begging for my--

Geralt cut him off, abruptly shoving the bottle into Jaskier’s mouth, holding it there until he was sure that Jaskier had actually swallowed. 

Something shifted then, the blind lust giving way to an ache at being denied what Jaskier’s body was screaming for. He began to shake against Geralt, eyes wet as the ache shifted into pain. 

“It hurts,” Jaskier said, confusion in his voice at the sudden turn of events. “Oh gods, Geralt, why does it hurt? Do something. Please! Touch me! I’m begging you, Geralt,” Jaskier pleaded. 

Geralt grit his teeth. He let go of Jaskier’s wrists and shifted the prince onto his side, curling up behind him. Against his better judgement, he pressed a kiss to the nape of Jaskier’s neck. The prince arched back against him, pressing his ass against Geralt’s crotch, but the witcher stilled him with a steady hand on his hip. 

“Geralt, please. I want you. I-I need you. If I d-don’t have you, I think I’ll die,” Jaskier groaned and had he not just taken a sleeping draught, it would have been much harder to keep him in place. 

Not for the first time, Geralt thanked whatever high power he could think of for the fact that witcher’s were immune to sex magic. Well, succubus and incubus sex magic anyway. The whole situation would have been messier if neither of them had control over their sex drive. 

“You won’t die,” Geralt said gruffly. “You just need to sleep it off.” 

Jaskier sniffled and to Geralt’s horror he realized the prince was crying. Goddess above, who the fuck made the sleeping draught Geralt had given him? It was taking far longer to kick in than it should. He was going to have to have a word with the palace healer. With a sigh, Geralt kissed Jaskier’s neck again, unable to keep the soft smile off his face when Jaskier hummed happily. 

“Geralt, I--

The witcher hushed him, teasing his fingers under the collar of Jaskier’s chemise, pressing a kiss to the newly exposed skin of his shoulder. He trailed soft kisses across the prince’s neck and shoulders, until Jaskier’s tears had stopped flowing and his eyes were fluttering shut, the sleeping draught finally beginning to do its job. 

This much Geralt could do. 

There was no harm in comforting the hurting prince until he drifted off. 

It didn’t mean anything. 

It didn’t--

“Mmm, I love you,” Jaskier sighed, turning in Geralt’s arms to nuzzle into the curve of Geralt’s neck. His voice was soft and slurred, but Geralt heard the words as clear as day. A second later Jaskier was asleep and Geralt was left in the dark with his own thoughts. 

It wasn’t a secret that Jaskier wanted Geralt, at least in the physical sense. But Geralt had never allowed himself to think that it could be more. That Jaskier could be...but then he’d gone and said it out loud. Why did he have to go and do that? Did he have no compassion for Geralt’s heart? 

Geralt chose his words very carefully. As a result, he often came off as cold and unfeeling. That was the furthest thing from the truth. His heart had been broken and bruised a hundred times over; by every child that cried when they saw him, or innkeeper who turned him away because of what he was. By creatures who had done no wrong but who human’s still feared. By Yennefer. And Renfri. A man from so many years ago, who Geralt still refused to name because it hurt too badly to do so. 

Years of keeping his heart safely under lock and key. Never getting too attached to any person or place because he knew it was all temporary. 

But now there was Jaskier. 

Jaskier who had wormed his way under Geralt’s skin and who now had a home buried deep in the witcher’s ribcage. 

A single thought drifted into his mind. One that utterly terrified him. 

His heart was no longer his own. 

It was Jaskier’s. 

Geralt needed to let go of the sleeping prince. He needed to go see the king and queen and resign from his post and get as far away from Jaskier as possible because he would be damned if he dragged Jaskier into the hell that was his life. Witcher’s weren’t meant to have happily ever afters. Geralt had known that since he was a child himself. 

But he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed. 

He couldn’t bring himself to leave even though he knew that he should. That it would be kinder to both of them. 

Instead, he held Jaskier closer and buried his nose in the prince’s hair. 

It wasn’t long before he drifted off to sleep himself. 

XXX

Geralt woke up slowly. It was strange, since he generally woke suddenly, ready to reach for the knife hidden under his pillow. Maybe there was some magical spell on Jaskier’s bed that meant anyone who slept there was treated to a good night’s sleep and a peaceful waking. He shook the ridiculous thought from his mind, which was clearly taking longer to wake up than the rest of him, and moved to curl closer to Jaskier only to realize that he was alone in bed. He was about to get up and look for the prince, make sure he’d actually slept the sex magic off and not wandered off and gotten himself into trouble, when the soft sound of lute strings being plucked filled his ears. 

Geralt opened his eyes slowly, staying perfectly still so that Jaskier wouldn’t know he was awake yet. The man in question was perched on the seat by the window, strumming his lute and singing quietly. An ordinary man wouldn’t have been able to make out the lyrics with how softly they were sun, but Geralt heard him loud and clear. 

_ Not even with aid from a magical spell _

_ Can I scratch the itch that burns so deep _

_ You’re under my skin, stuck in every cell _

_ Mine from the moment that I saw you _

_ Oh please, I beg you, stop the ache _

_ My heart has skipped too many beats _

_ Pining for you is a horrid mistake _

_ But I’d make it again, always _

The song was sad. 

Sadder than most of the pieces the prince was fond of playing. Despite how lovely his voice was to listen to, the lyrics made Geralt’s stomach twist unpleasantly. Oh, if only Jaskier knew how hard Geralt himself had been pining. Yennefer had gone so far as to refer to him as a “pine forest” which was an uncalled for jab, but it didn’t make it any less true.

Jaskier missed the next chord when his eyes landed on Geralt. 

“You’re awake.” 

He sounded nervous.

Nervous was better than scared. 

Geralt hummed and pushed himself out of bed, rolling his shoulders back in an attempt to ease some of the tension. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked. 

Jaskier shrugged and began to idly pick at the strings again, the notes less sure than they had been before. 

“Fine. Fit as a fiddle. No more, uh, magic in my system,” he said quickly. “Now that that’s settled, would you mind seeing yourself out? I’d like a bit of time to myself.” 

It was clear that despite being under the influence of magic, Jaskier remembered everything that happened last night. Geralt wasn’t sure if he was glad or not. If the prince had forgotten, they could go on like nothing happened. But Jaskier remembered, and he was being cagey and awkward and trying to send the witcher away, which Geralt didn’t like one bit. 

“We should talk,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier looked up at him in surprise. 

“I was under the impression you didn’t care for talking. Why now, of all times, do you want to talk?” Jaskier asked incredulously. 

Geralt got to his feet, crossing the room toward the prince. He plucked the lute from Jaskier’s hands, setting it aside, and then grabbed ahold of his arm and pulled him to his feet.

“You know why,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier’s cheeks were pink with shame and embarrassment. He looked like he hoped the floor would open up and swallow him whole. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said quietly. 

Geralt frowned. 

“Sorry?” 

“F-for what I said. I shouldn’t have--

“You’re sorry that you love me?” Geralt asked. His insides ached at the thought. 

Jaskier’s eyes went wide and he shook his head vehemently. 

“No! Of course not. I-I’d never be sorry for that. How could I be, Geralt? Have you met yourself?” he asked. 

Geralt snorted. He had actually. While he couldn’t deny that he was easy on the eyes (he’d learned that much at least over the years), he was hardly the kind of man women, or men for that matter, were eager to bring home to meet their parents. 

“I’m sorry that I told you,” Jaskier continued. “I know I need to move on. I should have stopped flirting with you the moment you made it clear you weren’t interested, but my stupid heart wouldn’t listen and I--

“What if I was interested?” Geralt prompted. 

Jaskier’s face went from open and apologetic, to closed off and harsh in a flash. 

“Don’t be cruel,” he snarled. “You’ve made it clear that you don’t...feel anything for me. And that’s fine. I can’t fault you for that. But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. S-so please, please don’t string me along, Geralt. I couldn’t take it. Not from you.” 

Geralt shook his head, brushing his knuckles over Jaskier’s still pink cheek. 

“Have you ever known me to say anything I didn’t mean?” he asked. 

Jaskier’s mouth dropped open as he gaped at the witcher, nearly tripping over his own two feet when Geralt pulled him forward with a gentle arm looped around his waist. 

“B-but you--I mean I--you don’t want me!” Jaskier blurted. 

Geralt huffed, a fond look on his face that was helpless to disguise. 

“Believe me, I want you,” he said, chuckling at just how true his words were. If only Jaskier knew. Then again, better he didn’t, because Geralt would never hear the end of it. 

“I shouldn’t,” Geralt said seriously. “You are...far better off without me.”

“That’s not--

Geralt cut of Jaskier’s protest, two fingers pressed to the prince’s parted lips. 

“Witcher’s don’t get fairytale endings. They die tired and alone. I’ve never known a witcher to settle down, and certainly not with a prince,” Geralt said, curling his fingers under Jaskier’s chin. “But Melitele help me, I can’t seem to make myself leave, even though I know I should.” 

Jaskier shook his head, looping his arms around Geralt’s neck. 

“I don’t want you to leave. At least not without me.” 

Geralt hummed low in the back of his throat, eyes drifting shut as he rested his forehead against Jaskier’s. 

“Are you sure you want this?” he asked. 

“I’m sure,” Jaskier said, not missing even a beat. 

“I’m not--

“You  _ are _ .” 

Whatever else Geralt had thought to say died on his tongue when Jaskier closed the remaining distance between them, lips soft against the witcher’s own. When Jaskier’s fingers found their way into Geralt’s hair, their chests pressed together and one of Jaskier’s thighs between his, he knew he was in trouble. For once, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He was done pretending that he didn’t want this. 

Jaskier wanted him...

And who was Geralt to deny a prince what he wanted. 


End file.
